мера возмездия
by smileinthedark
Summary: In the midst of the Cold War, Alfred tries to sort out Ivan in the only way he knows how; he breaks out the whip. AmeRus. De-anoned from kink meme.


A/N: Written for the Hetalia kink meme.

Warnings: Man-sex, non/dubcon.

Disclaimer: APH not mine. Obviously.

**мера возмездия**

"Your taste in weapons was always rather archaic, Ivan." Alfred spat out the man's name with contempt as he stared down the barrel of a rusty rifle. Rifles. Nearly useless in this day and age. He hadn't used those since the war.

"And yet with this 'archaic' weapon, Alfred, I have you on your knees. Do you really wish to push your luck?" Alfred snarled as Ivan drove the old gun roughly into his forehead, feeling a warm stream of blood trickling down from the scratch left behind. There was a shiny new Beretta92F tucked safely into the back of his waistband; he had picked it out especially for the occasion. Still, on his knees and with his hands cuffed in front of him, he could do nothing but glare at his communist counterpart.

"It's not just your weapon that's archaic, Ivan. It's you, too. You're well past your prime."

"You are in no position to insult me, Alfred." A smile stretched across Ivan's face as he spoke. It was the same smile he'd used to drive fear into his neighbors for years, and he relished the shudder of disgust as it shook Alfred's beaten frame. "Look at yourself. You're but an overgrown child too spoiled for your own good. You need to be taught a lesson." With that, Ivan roughly pulled his gun back from Alfred's forehead, leaving behind a streak of blood that caught in the man's blonde hair and tinted his sweat drops red.

Alfred took the opening, and with a strength that only the American could muster, he used his knee to snap the rusted chain linking his cuffs and grabbed the barrel of Ivan's gun to bring himself to his feet. His other hand was already at his waistband, and he pulled out his pistol, shoving it into Ivan's throat.

"You are past your prime, Ivan. You should know better than to let down your guard." Ivan's usual smile was gone, in its place a vicious sneer. He swallowed, feeling the cold, hard metal of Alfred's gun pressing against his Adam's apple threateningly.

"How rich coming from a man who spent the last day bruised, bloodied, and on his knees." Alfred pushed his weapon harder into Ivan's windpipe.

"Hours for which I still have to repay you, Ivan." Alfred relaxed the pressure of his gun on the Russian's throat only slightly, just enough to let the man breathe in silent, shuddering gasps. It was only his pride which kept him from violently coughing the air back into his lungs.

"Drop the gun, Ivan." Alfred shifted his grip on the rifle and kept his eyes trained on Ivan as he found the man's hand on the forestock and gripped it forcefully in warning.

"And what makes you think I'm going to do that, Alfred?" Ivan was rewarded with a tightening pressure on his hand.

"Because, Ivan, you well know I could kill you right here, right now."

"You won't kill me, Alfred." Ivan laughed, and was rewarded with Alfred's feral growl as he pushed the pistol once again into his windpipe.

"You can't kill me," Ivan choked out, still laughing," just like I can't kill you."

"Drop the gun, or I'll break your hand." Alfred glared heatedly at the Russian. What he'd said was true, and it hit a sore spot to be on par with the communist nation. He was America, he was supposed to be a hero, damn it!

Wordlessly, Ivan released the rifle and let it drop to the floor with a dull thud. Without shifting his gaze, or his gun, Alfred dug his hand into one of his jacket's many pockets, searching for something.

"I'm sure," Alfred started, "that you're familiar with the term 'speak softly and carry a big stick,' Ivan." Said man laughed. Of course he was, but since when did the American ever speak softly?

"Well," he continued, finally finding what he was looking for, "we no longer use that method. We've found this," he pulled out a coil of black leather and grinned, "to be much more effective. Is a whip archaic enough for you, Ivan?"

Alfred kicked the rifle on the floor to the opposite side of the room and took a step back, pistol in one hand, whip in the other.

"Turn around, Ivan." The Russian looked on, amused, and made no motion to obey Alfred's orders. With a resounding snap, Alfred lashed at his face, and it took all of Ivan's willpower not to reach up and cover the cheek that had been hit. Not surprisingly, the whip was of good quality, and he was sure that it had left a nice red mark where it had come into contact with his skin.

"Turn around, Ivan." This time he obeyed, dropping his hands to his sides and turning to face the wall. Another lash, this one only slightly less painful than the first, cut across the thin cloth shirt on his back.

"Hands on the wall where I can see them." Ivan laughed, looking at Alfred over his shoulder.

"Going to beat me into submission, Alfred? You know you can't cont-" He was interrupted by a loud snap as the whip once again came down on his back. Though he was too proud to ever admit to the pain, Ivan couldn't help but wince.

"Shut up," Alfred snarled, tucking his pistol into the back of his waistband and taking a step forward, fisting his hand in the Russian's hair. He tugged on it viciously, twisting Ivan's neck toward him.

"You may be strong, but I'm stronger. Don't defy me, Ivan. This is for your own good." Releasing his hold, Alfred took a step back and uncoiled his whip, a silent threat as he kept his eyes trained on the nation in front of him.

"Hands on the wall, Ivan." The snap of Alfred's whip slicing through the air accompanied the command, but he found himself still unwilling to take the order.

"You could at least make it interesting, if you're going to play games, Alfred." The American's true skill with the whip shown through as it formed a dazzling figure eight in the air, then came down on Ivan's back as raw, bloody welts not once, not twice, but three times within mere seconds.

"I'm not like you, Ivan," he growled, stalking toward him across the room. "I don't play games." Alfred grabbed the man by his wrists and dragged him forcefully across the room to his paperwork-covered desk. Holding Ivan's wrists behind his back, Alfred slammed him, chest first, into the desk, sending the piles of paperwork flying onto the floor. Even with the air being nearly forced out of his lungs, Ivan made a mental note to get Liet to clean up the room afterwards.

"This," Alfred emphasized, tightening his hold on Ivan's wrists, "is not a game. You were never a terribly dependable ally, _Россия_, but this time you've gone off the deep end. No one else," he continued, slinging the whip around his neck to free his other hand, "cares enough to try and bring you to your senses."

Bending over, Alfred's hand found Ivan's belt buckle and began to undo it, slipping his hand into the man's pants to stroke his growing erection. A low groan that Ivan knew should have been from embarrassment emanated from deep within his throat as he felt the American's warm fingers grasping him firmly. Alfred smiled. Decades upon decades of spying on the nation hadn't been for nothing; he already knew all Ivan's ins and outs.

"There's a lesson to be learned here," Alfred smiled, taking Ivan's earlobe between his teeth for a brief second, a subtle warning, "and I'm going to beat it into you, Ivan. Tonight, we're going to eliminate those communist tendencies, you understand?"

Letting go of Ivan's wrists, Alfred reached for the whip still dangling off his neck. Feeling his hands free, Ivan reached behind him, blindly searching for something, anything, to grab onto. What he caught was the cloth of Alfred's shirt, and he pulled down on it viciously and, he judged, with near-perfect accuracy as he felt the back of his head come into sharp contact with the American's nose, producing a dreadful crack.

Alfred swore loudly as the blood gushed from his now-broken nose and slammed Ivan's head into the desk. Hard. With his other hand, he quickly gathered up both the man's wrists in a crushing grip.

"Don't defy me, Ivan." It came out through gritted teeth as Alfred managed to hook his thumb around Ivan's middle finger and bend it backwards. "What part of 'for your own good' didn't you understand?" Ivan kept quiet, biting his lip in agony as he felt his finger straining under the pressure.

"Do you understand me, Ivan?" He said nothing, the long, tense silence broken only by the awful snap of Ivan's finger as Alfred pushed it roughly past its physical limitations. It took several seconds for Ivan to realize that he had cried out, and he bit his tongue to quell the sound.

"You'll do what I ask of you, Ivan, right?" Alfred slipped his hand back into the Russian's pants. "After all, don't you like this?" His voice became a low purr as he gripped Ivan's erection firmly, enjoying the hiss of pleasure as he struggled against Alfred's hold.

"You're sick," he bit out through gritted teeth as he felt Alfred's hand teasingly stroking his hard-on. "Or," he laughed, "have you finally stopped playing hero, Alfred?" He tightened his grip, eliciting a moan as he once again bent over the Russian to whisper in his ear.

"You're sick too, Ivan. You like this. Don't lie to me." A throaty moan escaped Ivan's lips as Alfred touched his lips to his skin, biting down none too gently on the tender junction between his neck and his shoulder. What the American said was true, and it was hard to deny. With his distressing history, learning to like the constant torture was the only surefire way to stay even remotely sane.

"I'm going to let go of your hands now," Alfred told him. "If you try anything again, I won't hesitate to break a finger on your right hand this time." Defeated, Ivan pressed his forehead against the desk as the American released his hands and once again retrieved his whip from around his neck. Alfred trailed the end lightly, teasingly down Ivan's spine and watched him shudder in response. With a sharp crack, it came down hard between Ivan's shoulder blades, and he bucked against the desk, biting into his cheeks to stay silent.

"Let's hear that voice of yours, Ivan." By that time, Alfred had worked the Russian's pants down to his knees and he was now teasing the man's entrance with his thin fingers.

"I hope, Alfred," Ivan inhaled sharply as he felt the man probing his hole, "that you are enjoying yourself." He gasped again as Alfred draped his whip around his neck and brought his other hand down to twist a nipple. "Because if this is your payback," Ivan shuddered and gripped the edge of the desk with his hands as he felt one boney finger slide inside, "I'll be sure to reimburse you in kind." Alfred laughed, neither cruel, nor cold, but deeply amused.

"Really?" He removed his hands from Ivan's body and began to undo his belt buckle. "I'll remember that, Ivan." He placed a hand firmly on the Russian's back and smiled as it slipped slightly in the blood dampening the man's shredded shirt. Alfred pushed down his dark denim jeans just enough to release his throbbing, nearly painful, erection and pressed his body flush against the man underneath him, the whip around his neck tickling Ivan's ear with deceptive softness.

"Suck," the younger man ordered, tracing the Russian's lips with two fingers as he waited for him to open his mouth. Alfred's other hand once again reached for the whip – Ivan was beginning to realize that, despite his love of heavy artillery, it was the American's favorite weapon – and held it against his throat in silent warning.

Ivan opened his mouth, letting Alfred's fingers slide in, and he could feel the man's breath hot on his neck as he pinned him more firmly to the table. He sucked and licked at them sloppily, unguarded teeth grazing skin in a mock display of power even as he could feel his body surrendering to Alfred's searing touch. His arousal, trapped between his stomach and the wooden bureau, twitched achingly.

"It's not like I want to do this," Alfred lied, pulling his fingers out of Ivan's mouth and positioning them near his entrance, "but it's for your own good." The end of the whip was still pressed into his neck, a constant reminder, and Alfred once again spread Ivan's legs and slid one slicked finger, and then another, into Ivan's hole, enjoying the man's uncomfortable, yet clearly aroused, squirms.

"What kind of hero lies, Alfred?" Ivan managed to get out the sentence between stifled moans as he felt the American's fingers enter him, stretching and searching.

"You'll thank me later," Alfred replied, not even skipping a beat at the insult Ivan was sure would have delivered a critical hit.

"Or maybe," he continued, finally locating the Russian's prostate, "you'll be thanking me now, _Россия._ What do you think?" The rhetorical question hung in the air, answered only by the stifled keening sounds Ivan could no longer keep in check.

"If you're going to do it," he hissed, fighting against the urge to moan, "do it and get it over with." Alfred laughed.

"No. I'm the one doing the teaching here," he emphasized, pulling out his fingers and positioning his member at the Russian's entrance, "and you have a lesson to learn, Ivan." Said man swallowed thickly. Why was the whip still pressed up against his throat?

Alfred's free hand again found its way to Ivan's back, nestling firmly in the dip of his spine, and he watched as it arched gracefully, involuntarily, at his touch. But now was no time to admire beauty – he still had his job to do – and he thrust himself inside the Russian, not even a shred of tenderness in his movements as he slammed Ivan's body hard against the desk. Ivan kept silent, and Alfred frowned.

"Fine then," he decided, hunching over the Russian's bent form, his body sliding across Ivan's as the blood – some his, mostly his partner's – continued to flow in slow rivulets across their skin. "If you won't speak, you'll listen."

And so he did. He listened through what felt like hours of the man's sexual torment, talk of dirty Red spies and market economies punctuated with overly rough thrusts and more lashes to his back than he could count. Occasionally Alfred's thrusts hit his prostate, but more than often, they didn't. The cries and moans that fought open Ivan's lips and forced themselves into the thick air surrounding them escalated nonetheless, more an automatic response to the violent kisses of the whip on his skin than anything else.

Ivan relished the pain; he knew he did. And he knew that Alfred knew it too. That was why, even when the American had dropped the whip in favor of scraping his blunted nails down Ivan's chest and had stopped talking so he could bite down firmly on Ivan's neck, Ivan could not put up the resistance necessary to fight him off, succumbing instead to Alfred's scorching touch as they both came ever closer to completion.

Ivan came into Alfred's hand with one sharp, barely-suppressed moan, spattering the both of them with his cum as he fell limp and exhausted across the hardwood desk. Several thrusts later, Alfred followed suit with an almost inaudible grunt, his seed spilling into Ivan's insides, infiltrating, as if intent to explore the man's every crevice.

The two men stood there for several more seconds, silently panting out the remainder of their orgasms, and out of the corner of his eye Ivan could see a slow river of blood drip-drip-dripping onto the scattered paperwork below. He closed his eyes in resignation as Alfred finally slid out and took a step back, pulling up his obnoxious patriotic boxers and buckling a belt over course denim jeans. Heavy footsteps made their way to the door – still open, Ivan realized – and paused in the doorway.

No words should have been needed, and in fact none were, but since when had that ever stopped Alfred from misreading the atmosphere and opening his big mouth?

"I hope our next negotiations won't have to be so brutal," the American told him, a gentle smile playing at the corners of his lips. Before Ivan could reply, Alfred was gone, but the air still hung heavy with his retribution.

Reviews, my lovelies?


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